


If At First You Don't Succeed

by Rivalshipping_Archive (rivalshipping)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha!Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Omega!John, Omegaverse, fluff (sometimes) (ok most of the time), good news everyone, i felt as if i needed to add that again, it's all good, mpreg (eventually), tell me you get that reference haha, things are looking up, very minor mentions of violence!, we've gotten to the smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:46:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivalshipping/pseuds/Rivalshipping_Archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Kink Meme!!!</p><p>
  <i>John can't seem to get pregnant. After every heat it is a big disappointment, but they keep trying. Sherlock starts to blame himself (and his past drug use) as the reason he can't get John pregnant.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Then one day, John's scent changes unexpectedly.</i>
</p><p>
  <b>Now Being Completed</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while now, and I've just started to make headway into the last chapter(s?). So here's what I have now, for your entertainment!
> 
> ps this is only as edited as i left it on the meme. so if there are any errors im sorry! ill go back when its done and clean everything up...

John had never seen Sherlock as excited for anything as he was right then. A month ago they had agreed to try for a child, which entailed serious sleep and diet adjustments and both of them easing off of their hormone suppressants. John had just got back to the flat after buying extra food and water, relieved that all the decomp experiments were already out of the refrigerator, and walked in on Sherlock cleaning their room and remaking the bed. “What’s all this, then?” he asked from the doorway, amused.   
  
Sherlock looked up at him, leaving a pile of clean sheets on the dresser for the inevitable changing. “I want our first heat together to be a successful one,” Sherlock replied, practically trembling with excitement. He was at John’s side in a split second, pressing his nose to a particularly warm spot behind John’s ear. “You haven’t felt it yet?”   
  
John shook his head and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck to keep him close. “I haven’t. Every two months is an estimate, love. Don’t be surprised if it doesn’t come this week.”   
  
The detective’s excited vibration didn’t stop. “Omega heats trigger Alpha ones, John. I can smell your pheromones already…” He took a deep inhale, pressing his body more firmly against John’s. “They’re intoxicating.”   
  
Extricating himself from Sherlock’s grip, John walked around his room, instinctively judging it. “Yes, well, I can’t smell anything. I don’t even know if you’re worthy yet,” he teased, kneeling on the floor to check under the bed. “I can’t be getting pregnant with dangerous chemicals everywhere.”   
  
“I cleared everything out.” Sherlock wrung his hands. “You—You do think I’m worthy, don’t you? You’re not going to find another Alpha?”   
  
John watched him carefully, regretting his words. Perhaps his heat  _was_  starting; Alphas were often paranoid that their Omegas in estrus would leave to find another, more virile Alpha. Some of the more primitive reactions never died, apparently. “I promise, Sherlock, I will never find another Alpha.” He pulled his jumper over his head, dropping it on the floor. “You ate, right?”   
  
“I did. Before you got back.” Sherlock’s pupils dilated in his bright eyes, swallowing most of the pale green in their depths. “John, you smell  _so good_ …”   
  
“Come over here,” John said comfortingly, reaching out. Sherlock gratefully stepped into his arms, resting his chin on the top of John’s head, and sighed when John began to fumble with the zip of his trousers. “We’re both ready, Sherlock. No need to be nervous. Our child will be beautiful, just like you.”   
  
Sherlock moaned at the thought, pushing John back onto the bed. “As long as they have your eyes and your heart, I’ll be content,” he murmured, before capturing John’s lips in a tender kiss.   
  
Three days later, they both stared at the little white pregnancy test. It had two mocking blue lines across the tip. A definite no. “We have all the time in the world,” John whispered. He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring himself or Sherlock, but the detective seemed to appreciate it, resting his chin on the top of John’s head.   
  
“Maybe not  _all_  of it…” Sherlock replied just as quietly, “But enough. We can do this.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on the meme, i had changed two months to one. im changing it back, because i like two months better :/

The second time they tried, a bit over two months later, they were even more ready. They hadn’t had any casual sex for weeks upon weeks (a travesty for Sherlock, who practically depended on it when he was bored) in preparation, and waited until the middle of John’s three-day heat to start for his highest fertility.

“Isn’t this very… clinical?” John asked, on all fours with a few pillows stacked up under his hips to keep them at the right angle. “I mean, isn’t making a child about love?”

“I do love you,” Sherlock replied dryly. “I love you enough to want to get this right this time.” John tensed and he bit his lip, regretting his last comment. “Not that we didn’t have it right before—I mean, we didn’t _make_ a child, but we had the right idea—Well, it’s rather hard to get the _wrong_ idea—“

John cut him off with a kiss, knocking the stack of pillows over. “Sherlock, calm down. We’ve been over this. It wasn’t either of our faults. The suppressants are completely out of our systems and this time it’ll work.”

Sherlock blinked at him for a few moments. “John,” he said slowly, “Do you have any idea how long I spent on measuring the exact height and angle of those pillows?”

“Daft sod,” John playfully replied, practically pouncing on him.  
\---  
Sherlock looked up with a hopeful expression, watching John come out of the bathroom and into the sitting room with the test stick in hand. “A hit?” he asked softly.

John opened his mouth, closed it again, and shook his head. “A miss. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Not your fault, John. We can try again at your next heat.”

They were both subdued at the double murder investigation the next day. John would occasionally turn away and cover his mouth with his hand, clenching his eyes shut. Sherlock would pace somewhere near him and touch his shoulder and he would heave a sigh.

Alpha Lestrade seemed to be the only one who knew why.  
\---  
The third time they tried, exactly seven weeks from John’s last heat, they started early. Sherlock would pace the bedroom after every knotting was finished, taking his own temperature, taking John’s temperature, charting the changes on his laptop, feeding them both regularly, and being generally unfeeling.

John was so afraid of disappointment after those three miserable days, for both his and Sherlock's sake, that he tested himself eight times. Eight pairs of bright blue lines.

Sherlock found him on the bathroom floor hours later, sitting with his back against the bath, his head in his hands, surrounded by negative tests. “John,” he began softly.

“What’s the saying?” John interrupted with a small smile on his face. “’Third time’s the charm’?”

“John, quiet,” Sherlock instructed tersely, kneeling in front of him and taking his hands. “We _can_ do this. I was… cruel, this last cycle. It must have been stressful for you. I’m… I’m sorry.”

John looked up from under his furrowed eyebrows and licked his lips. “We both want a baby, Sherlock. Badly. Maybe… if we ease up on the wishing…”

“It’ll come,” Sherlock finished, kissing John on the forehead and then helping him stand. “Mycroft texted. Another Queen and Country, it seems. I thought you’d enjoy that.”

John coughed a teary laugh, nodding. He looked years younger with that smile, Sherlock thought affectionately. “Always up to serve.”

“You quite deserve a bit for yourself.”  
\---  
The fourth time they tried hardly counted.

The first day of John’s heat was whacked. They were out on a case that had lasted a week, and the overpowering smell of fear and adrenaline wherever they went masked John’s increasingly potent pheromones. The late evening of the second day, while Sherlock was indulgently explaining his deductions and the halls of Scotland Yard were calming down, John suddenly went still.

“Sherlock,” he murmured, then cleared his throat. “Sherlock.”

“What, John, what, can’t you see I’m— Oh. _Oh_.“

They stared at each other for a moment. The few Alphas in the room perked up, stepping infinitesimally closer to John. “We’ll text,” Sherlock said shortly, snaking his arm around John’s waist and pulling him out of Lestrade’s office.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade called after him.

“Text!” John replied, his hand gripping the lapel of Sherlock’s coat and pulling him faster.

“I’m on my last day, Sherlock, I can feel it,” John whispered to him, waving for a cab. “We don’t have long.”

The consulting detective rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “And I can smell it. It’s… _strong_ , to say the least.” He sat back, letting John give their destination, and texted Lestrade the rest of the details with one hand, his other arm still around John’s waist.

John seemed uncomfortable. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, love, it’s not like you can control it.” Sherlock shoved his phone back in his pocket, taking out a fifty pound note instead. “We’ll make the most of this last day.”

John seemed even more uncomfortable. “I… Sherlock, I want you, you know that. My hormones are driving me to you, driving me out of my mind!” He threaded his fingers through his hair, his elbows on his knees. “I’m so tired… I don’t think I can do this tonight, and we’ll lose hours, and every hour counts!”

Sherlock’s gaze shifted slowly from John’s back to straight ahead, a vacant look in his eyes. “Stress, John,” he whispered, rubbing his thumb in soothing circles on John’s waist. “We’re losing this battle because of stress. You told me a few months ago that we had plenty of time, and we do.”

The cab pulled up in front of their flat and Sherlock gave the cabbie his quid, opening his door and getting out before helping his right distressed doctor. “Come on then,” Sherlock murmured, taking John’s hand and leading him inside and up the stairs. “You, wash up and get to bed. We'll discuss this in the morning.”

John watched him pace nervously, practically ripping his coat and scarf off and throwing them to the sofa. “Sherlock—“

“John, go.”

Deep blue eyes met his. “Right,” he murmured, then turned and went upstairs, closing the door to their bedroom.

Sherlock slept on the couch that night, despite John’s heady aroma seeping down the stairs and begging him to come up and his previous statement. They both needed a time away from each other to cool down if they were going to be any kind of intimate with each other later on.

Ten long hours later had them together again, sitting at the (thankfully cleaned) dining table, munching quietly on toast and biscuits and sipping tea and trying to ignore the elephant in the room. “Sex?” John asked eventually.

“Sex,” Sherlock agreed, and stood up. “I can’t wait. Over the table.”

John grinned at him, pulling off his shirt. “God, yes.”  
\---  
“The shower’s been on for ages, John, what the hell are you doing in there?”

The water stopped and the toilet flushed before John opened the door and peered out at Sherlock, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I failed again,” he whimpered, upending a test box at Sherlock’s feet. Twenty negative tests. _Twenty_.

“John, you didn’t.” The detective pulled John into his arms, allowing him to sob into his shirt. “Shhh, John, it’s not your fault… never your fault…”

Only ten months into trying and it was already breaking them.


	3. Chapter 3

While everyone was used to Sherlock’s caustic attitude, being chewed out by John was completely new. The whole of New Scotland Yard was keeping its distance from the two while they worked cases, preferring not to get either of them angry; John would bristle and lash out if anything was said about Sherlock, and vice versa.

In between (hatefully sparse) investigations, John and Sherlock also kept their distance from each other around their flat. John seemed to have any and every excuse to go out and Sherlock let him, sulking on the couch or staring at the floorboard at the foot of his bed where he’d stocked his nicotine patches.

A few days after their fifth failed try, John was curled up in bed, trying to relax to the sound of the heavy rain outside. Sherlock was somewhere in the flat experimenting.

Or, perhaps not. John looked up at the sound of a brief knock at the door. “May I come in?” Sherlock asked wearily.

“Of course,” John replied, rubbing his eyes. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes.” Sherlock sat beside him and leaned forward to run his fingers through John’s hair. “I think I know why we can’t conceive.”

The doctor sat up, frowning at him. “Did you find something in all that research?”

Sherlock nodded, shifting closer to lean his head against John’s shoulder. “I was a cocaine addict for almost six years,” he said, and then cut off, lowering his eyes.

John sighed in understanding. “That _would_ lower your sperm count, wouldn’t it?” he mumbled sarcastically, patting Sherlock’s knee. “But you’re virile enough, love. I doubt it would have affected you that much.” They both knew he was lying, but neither wanted to say it. Sherlock kissed him in apology.

“I ruined it. We would have had a chance for a child if I hadn’t—“

“Sherlock, stop. We didn’t even know each other then. And it’s not your fault.” He pulled Sherlock on top of him, and then held him by either side of his curly haired head. “We’ll keep trying. And even if we don’t have our own child, there are plenty that need a home already in the world. And we’ll stop this ‘staying away from each other’ nonsense.” He gently rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s, enticing a shy laugh out of the detective. “Maybe our _combined_ hormones will entice a reaction of sorts…”

“I still wish I hadn’t fucked with those drugs,” Sherlock murmured, and then pressed his lips to John’s. “And I’m sorry.”

A few moans answered him as John twisted his fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck, pulling ever-so-gently at them. “I think I can still smell the heat on you,” he said teasingly.

Sherlock smirked at him. “I can still smell myself on _you_ ,” he replied, nipping at John’s pulsing jugular. “There’s never a problem with a bit of make-up sex, is there?”

John let his legs fall open and Sherlock settled between them. “I wasn’t aware there was anything to make up for, but sex is nice all the same.”

“Nice? Only nice?” Sherlock frowned, shoving his hands up John’s pyjama shirt and rubbing his thumbs roughly over his nipples. “I’d like to think it amazing, you.”

“Mmm, only if—“

Sherlock’s phone began to ring and they both froze. “Oh _God_ ,” Sherlock moaned, sliding away from his Omega and fishing his phone out of his jacket. “Sherlock Holmes.” He waited a moment, listening to whoever was on the other end, and then closed his eyes in aggravation. “Yes, we’ll be there in a moment.”

Before Sherlock could get a word out to him, John was sitting up and shedding his nightshirt. “We can continue this later,” he said softly. “Murderers won’t wait for us to get off.”

“They should,” Sherlock seethed, stalking out of the room. “Two minutes, John!”

John undressed and pulled on some jeans and a vest, taking the stairs two at a time while he pulled his jumper on. Sherlock helped him into his jacket. “You know, when we do have a kid, our schedule is going to change. Or at least mine will.”

“The iPhone has that ‘face time’ thing,” Sherlock replied quietly, placing his hand at the small of John’s back and leading him down the rest of the stairs. “We can buy some and I’ll call you on every case. If you want to be the one to stay, of course.”

John chuckled, bumping Sherlock’s arm with his shoulder. “We can switch off, love.”

The cab ride to the crime scene was quiet. John was thinking fondly of the child they didn’t have, imagining its mass of dark curly hair and pale eyes just like its father. Every so often he would squeeze Sherlock’s hand in the seat between them.

“We need more tests,” John murmured as they approached the yellow tape surrounding the building, walking quickly to get out of the rain. “They’re all, ah, _used_.”

“Of course.” Sherlock swept past him, his long coat billowing dramatically behind him, and John was taken with a sudden fondness for the high-maintenance detective. “Lestrade, I hope to God you didn’t let Anderson molest this one in his 'quest for evidence'.”

“Sherlock, that was ages ago, and you know it was an accident,” Lestrade admonished, but the beginnings of a smile were tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nancy Larsen, forty three. We’ve already talked to some potential witnesses but no one’s seen anything.”

Sherlock ran a hand through his wet curls, then reached for the rubber gloves on the equipment table beside him. “She didn’t work, but she wasn’t sedentary… a stay at home mother, perhaps? Yes, I can still smell the Omega on her… The body wasn’t meant to be left here…”

John folded his arms across his chest. “It looks like she was poisoned with something. Her eyes are rolled back in her head and there’s still some foam on her lips. She hasn't been dead long.”

Sherlock shot him a grateful look, still touching certain parts of the woman. “So someone took a perfectly normal woman and poisoned her, then didn’t get to properly dispose of the body. For her to have so strong, and so obvious, a reaction to whatever poison it was, the killer was an amateur. We need to find out where she was meant to be taken.” He walked in a small circle, his eyes darting from one point in space to another rapidly. “She was a warning... or revenge.”

“How do you know she wasn’t meant to be left here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock smirked, peeling his gloves off. “She wasn’t left in the middle of the landing purposefully, or at the back where she would be hidden. She was being dragged by her feet, as her skirt and shirt are slightly pulled up. She was left mostly inside the doorway of a stairwell, where there would be heavy foot traffic at most times of the day, instead of in any of these empty rooms.”

“So the killer left her on accident?” John asked softly, his eyes trained on Sherlock’s back.

The detective nodded. “They were interrupted by something… and they ran off.”

Lestrade tilted his head in acquiescence. “We’ll get on it then,” he said, taking a few steps back before turning to the rest of his team. “You heard him, chaps.”

Sherlock found his way back to John, who had already moved to the exit. “This is odd,” John murmured.

“What is?” Sherlock hailed a taxi, holding his hand over his eyes to shield them from the rain.

John followed Sherlock inside and closed the door. “221 Baker Street,” he told the cabbie, and then sat back, taking Sherlock’s hand and leaning toward him. “The smell. Back there. It hasn’t affected me for years, since before I became a medical student, but that…”

Sherlock arched an aristocratic brow. “It smelled the same to me. I won—Oh!” He pressed his free hand excitedly yet gently to John’s abdomen, smiling widely. “Pregnancy will heighten your sense of smell! What if we’ve done it? What if the test was wrong?” Before John could reply, Sherlock rapped quickly on the divider between them and the driver. “We’re going to stop at Tesco first, yeah?”

Sherlock’s grin was infectious. “You two have good news?” the cabbie asked, his honest smile paired with a heavy cockney accent.

John opened his mouth, a doubtful frown creasing the space between his eyebrows, but Sherlock cut him off before he could get a word in. “We might be pregnant,” he practically squealed. John rolled his eyes.

“Congrats, mates. And I can tell the dark haired fellow is the Alpha in this one.” He shook his head slightly. “They’re always the most excited.”

“For Christ’s—“ John began, but Sherlock was already shoving a wad of tenners at the cabbie (more than necessary, even with a tip) and dragging John out behind him. “Sherlock, you _hate_ doing the shopping, it’s raining bloody cats and dogs outside, and it’s almost midnight!”

“Yeah, well, this is an emergency.” John could only stand at the registers, watching Sherlock affectionately as he tore down aisles looking for the pregnancy tests. “Come on, John!”

They made it out with a thankfully quick row with the chip and pin, Sherlock practically vibrating as they waited, once again, in the cold rain for a cab. “Sherlock, please don’t get overexcited. It could be any number of things.”

“I am a perfectly reasonable level of excited, John,” Sherlock snapped back, but his arm around John’s waist got tighter and he planted a kiss on John’s temple. “What if this is it?”  
\---  
“Wasn’t it.” John sat in Sherlock’s lap in his favourite armchair, holding out the short white test.

Sherlock’s head fell back and he sighed. “At least we’ve picked up the tests.”

John hummed in agreement, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and tapping the test against his leg. “We should get tested. Both of us. Fertility problems can be helped sometimes.”

“Isn’t that where you have to have a wank in a closet into a cup?”

“Basically,” John laughed, pressing a few kisses to Sherlock’s throat. “They do let couples go in together, love.”

“So it’s a _mutual_ wank in a closet into a cup.” John couldn’t reply, stifling his laughter in Sherlock’s half-opened dress shirt. The consulting detective chuckled as well, wrapping his arms around John’s waist and pressing his mouth into John’s still-damp hair. “Why not? We’ll have the results by your next heat, and it’ll be out of the way so we can work on the case.”

“Mm. I’ll leave you to think.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, mumbling something that could have been a reply, and held John tighter still.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing style seems to have changed a lot since I first posted this! @_@ Forgive me if chapter 4 looks a lot different from the first three....
> 
> And thank you all (so many of you!!!) for reading!

Both Alpha and Omega were quick to schedule their next androgynist appointments, five days apart as recommended, and only had to wait five weeks to get to a testing center. John went first (at Sherlock’s insistence) with no trouble, and his results would be mailed to them in a few weeks. Sherlock, however…

“You need to relax more,” John said in a soft voice, sitting back on the uncomfortable wooden bench in the oversized closet space of the ‘sample collecting area’. Sherlock was sitting next to him as he had been for twenty minutes, his head in his hands, and tapping his foot in an incessant rhythm.

“ _Performance anxiety_. Of all things, John. Alphas don’t get _performance anxiety_. Especially when I was _performing_ perfectly fine at your appointment.” His complaints were muffled by his palms but the blond understood his tone of voice enough.

John gently patted his knee, and then stood up to kiss the top of Sherlock’s head. “Sherlock, listen. Look at me and listen.” Pale, red-rimmed eyes rose from the floor to meet his. “You know I love you, and you know it doesn’t matter what the results say. It's just your fretting that's causing... this.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied hoarsely. “If you haven’t left me after this many failures, it’s highly unlikely that you would—“

The doctor silenced him with a kiss, pressing them tightly together with a hand to the back of Sherlock’s head. “Quiet, Sherlock,” he ordered, his tone more forceful than it had been in months. “Neither of us failed. We’ve had minor setbacks, yes, but no one is giving up.”

“Maybe you haven’t, _Doctor_ , but I have about had enough of mediocrity. Of-of disappointment, and malfunction.” Sherlock fixed John with a hateful glare, ignoring the slight misting of his own eyes and shoving John away. “I can finish this on my own.”

John closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “Sherlock, you’re under a lot of stress. Let me help you. _Please_.”

“You’ve helped enough.” Sherlock was close to standing, but John took his wrists tightly and pinned them to the bench.

“Shut up, Sherlock, and I fucking mean it.” The detective gritted his teeth but didn’t say anything further. Even he could tell when John was at the end of his saintly patience. “You’re going to wank and give them your semen and get the results and we’re going to be _fine_. If you don’t stop this self-depreciating shit, you’re not getting so much as a kiss from me until my next heat.”

This was no light threat. In any Beta relationship, emotional bonds didn’t play as much of a factor in the relationship, and ties were easy to break. But in an Alpha/Omega bond, any emotional connection made physical separation almost painful.

Sherlock held John’s gaze for a few challenging seconds, then relented, exhaling loudly. “Fine.” He pulled his wrists from his Omega’s loosened grip and swiped the back of his hand quickly over his eyes. “I’m… sorry.”

John pressed a punishing kiss to his mouth, nipping his lower lip. “Don’t let it happen again.” Sherlock breathed a moan and John smiled.  
\---  
The doctor’s heat once again came early, more than a week and a half before it should. He was unsurprised, given the amount of stress he was under and the odd effects that could have on Omega hormones, but his heart wasn’t really in it.

Sherlock seemed fine with the slow, almost hesitant pace of their estrus-driven sex, not commenting on John’s decrease in natural lubrication or the amount of time it took for him to get an erection. He lay on his back, allowing John to set his own pace, and supported him with gentle hands on his hips. The blond winced when Sherlock knotted inside him but didn’t protest or voice his discomfort (though he didn’t try to pretend Sherlock hadn’t noticed).

John settled against Sherlock’s chest and struggled to catch his breath. They were both silent until Sherlock’s knot deflated and he could pull out, causing John to flinch again. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?” Sherlock asked softly in his ear, stroking the base of his spine.

John frowned and shook his head as much as he could from his position. “No, you didn’t.” He cleared his throat, opening and closing his mouth a few times, and then said, “I’m sorry, for… my lack of enthusiasm.” He tried to laugh. “It’s just anxiety. I know we usually go four or five times in a day, but I don’t think I can—“

Sherlock’s soft, _honest_ laugh echoed in his chest and, almost instantly, John relaxed. “John, trust me. I’m not up for any more than you are.”

“I never thought I’d hear that come out of your mouth.”

The detective sniffed haughtily. “I would never force you into copulating. Not every Alpha is sex-crazed, John.”

John leaned up to kiss him, smiling broadly. Sherlock rarely failed to brighten his spirits. “Good on you, then. I’m going to take a shower and grab a cup of tea.”

Sherlock hummed in assent and laid back, staring up at John from under his thick black eyelashes, his dark hair spilled across the pillow under his head. “Hurry back,” he purred, splayed out like it was an effort to move.

The doctor licked his lips and narrowed his own darkened eyes. “Of course.”  
\---  
Mycroft personally delivered their results. John was appreciative that everything went through his own specialists. Sherlock was much less appreciative.

“Stay out of our business,” Sherlock snarled, drawing John behind himself as if he were protecting him. John went willingly, an amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth; another Alpha in such a close space as their sitting room had the detective on edge.

“It was for your own good, Sherlock. We couldn’t risk incorrect results.”

Sherlock made a grab for the folders in Mycroft’s hand, but he easily pulled them away, holding them against his side. “Mycroft, please,” John said, smoothly interrupting their childish argument. “Can we see the results?”

“As soon as my dearest brother promises not to put himself in unnecessary risk. Being a father is no easy feat, especially if one is incapacitated.”

“You sent me into a house filled with American kidnappers!”

“That was over a year ago, long before I knew of your intentions with Doctor Watson.”

John almost bristled in anger, but he took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed instead. “Not all Omegas are begging for protection, Mycroft,” he said as firmly as he could.

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the floor. “Forgive me, Doctor Watson,” he replied in a bored voice. Sherlock’s hand tightened around John’s.

“Results, Mycroft. John will not be in any unnecessary danger.”

They were all well aware that was not what the elder Holmes wanted, but he seemed to understand Sherlock wouldn’t be making any more exceptions. He handed the folders to Sherlock and busied himself with studying the handle of his umbrella.

The detective flipped through the files, his eyes lighting up. “John… we’re both—ow!”

John rubbed gently at the spot high up on Sherlock’s arm where he punched him. “What did I tell you?” he teased without any real irritation.

Mycroft cleared his throat and raised a knowing eyebrow, taking a step back. “I’ll leave you two to… celebrate.”

Sherlock barely waited for him to close the front door behind himself before he dropped the manila folders on the coffee table and pushed John to the couch, kissing the warm spot behind the Omega’s ear. “You’re perfect,” he breathed, pulling John tighter to himself. “Absolutely perfect.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” John replied kindly. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s thick curls and took a deep breath of his latent Alpha scent, only a bit more potent from John’s close contact. “At least we know that everything is biologically fine. Now all we need is to keep trying.”

“Mm,” Sherlock mumbled, but he didn’t seem to be listening. John rolled his eyes instead of mentioning it and pulled Sherlock closer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally another chapter!!
> 
> the smut isnt in this one, but it will be in the next one o3o

Sherlock continually observed John. Whether it was the way he walked—subtly confident, an Omega who knew his worth—or the way he dressed—conservative but comfortable and not looking to impress—or the way he smiled at Sherlock when he did something particularly good. Sometimes John would pick up on his observations and cock a curious eyebrow at him, but most of the time Sherlock was able to observe in secret.

John was overly stressed after this day at the surgery. Sherlock could tell by his limp returning and the way his normally bright and focused eyes were trained on the floor in front of him.

The detective sat up from his horizontal position on the sofa and set their files, which he had almost constantly been poring over, on the coffee table. “Come here,” he said in a firm voice. “Let me make it better.”

“Why? Aren’t you busy?” John replied, hanging up his coat and heading into the kitchen to make his ritualistic cup of tea. “I’ll be fine in a few.” His statement was contradicted by a clatter from the sugar bowl, no doubt its falling into the sink.

“John, come here now,” Sherlock repeated, brooking no arguments.

The Omega appeared with a disgruntled expression, his arms folded across his chest, and sat down heavily next to Sherlock. “Just a bit of a hard day.”

Sherlock took John into his arms and kissed his forehead. “How about we take a shower and order some takeaway? And then we can…” He nosed John’s hairline against his temple and took a deep breath. “Do something about this overwhelming Omega smell all over you.”

“What’s with this protective-Alpha persona you’ve developed? I’m still about a week from my heat.” John’s complaint was belied by his cuddling closer.

“You smell _divine_ ,” Sherlock murmured, “And I want to take you to bed and never let you out.”

John playfully slapped his arm and stood from his embrace. “Meet me in the shower. We’ll see about you holding me prisoner.”

  
***

  
Hindsight is always 20/20, Sherlock mused while propping his bound feet on the desk in front of him. He’d been very suspicious of the placement of Mrs. Hudson’s bins outside that very morning, and had glimpsed a footprint on the lid of the farthest one (closest to his bedroom window), but hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.

Now, almost twenty four hours later, he was tied up in some warehouse on the bank of the Thames, waiting for his kidnapper to tell him what he wanted.

“Mr Holmes,” a thick Edinburgh accent drawled at him. “So nice of you to… _stop in_.”

“Can we cut the dramatics?” Sherlock muttered under his breath, watching the tall, broad-shouldered man walk around the desk and stop behind his chair. “Who are you and what is it you want? Money? Consultation? Power?”

The man chuckled, laying his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders (he was an Alpha, by the smell of him, and not a very good one at that) and giving him a hard squeeze. “Charlie Gibson. I just wanted the satisfaction of catching the great Sherlock Holmes unawares.”

The detective sighed heavily. “And? That can’t possibly be it.” His next retort was cut off by a sudden influx of scent. At first he assumed some movement of his released the latent Omega smell in his skin and clothes into the air—being bonded to an Omega tended to leave a very noticeable scent on both parties—but it got stronger with every passing second. He looked up to the open door and into the dark hallway beyond, listening closely to the sound of scuffle outside.

John was dragged in, his lower lip split and bleeding and a dark bruise blossoming on his cheek. His eyes ran over Sherlock’s lanky form once, twice, before he sighed and slumped forward in his captor’s grip. “Sherlock,” he breathed in relief, apparently assured he was unhurt.

Sherlock slid his feet off of the desk and fought the bonds around his chest in anger, his teeth bared. “Let him go. He has nothing to do with this.”

“He has everything to do with this, Mr. Holmes. It obviously takes more than a kidnapping to scare a man like you. I’ve read about you in the papers; I know how you operate,” Gibson purred, walking toward John and his other lackeys. “I’ve also read about this pretty little thing. Sherlock Holmes has got himself a mate. And an Omega at that!”

John refused to back down, staring the man in the face, but held his tongue. Sherlock could tell he wanted to say something scornful and thanked whatever god was out there that he didn’t. “Using an Alpha’s mate as a bargaining chip is the mark of a weak man,” he said, a corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Gibson raised a hand to John, seeming surprised when the doctor didn’t flinch and Sherlock renewed his struggle. “Being that attached to a silly little Omega is the mark, Mr Holmes.” His index finger trailed over John’s cheek and there was another sudden influx of scent, this one tainted with fear. “His scent is amazing, isn’t it? I would love to have a taste…”

“I swear, if you _touch_ him again,” Sherlock hissed, flipping the Swiss knife he kept hidden in his belt loops closed and holding the ropes together with his hands.

John whimpered against his will, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. His heat was obviously coming on strong, and fast, and Sherlock had to get him out as soon as possible.

“I’m not a man to take another’s bonded, Mr Holmes. However, since I have you, I may as well use you.” Gibson beckoned to a tall, pale lackey, taking his gun and training it on Sherlock. “I know about Mycroft. The Invisible Hand behind every government action.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, heaving a sigh. If this man knew about Mycroft, Mycroft certainly knew about him, and he would be coming for them. “I don’t think you realize the mistake you’ve made,” Sherlock murmured, staring at John. His eyes were wide and glassy, and he was bucking his hips unconsciously; Sherlock was feeling the pull of his own heat but was still able to fight it.

“It was no mistake. What could the Invisible Hand love more than his brother?” Gibson asked with a smirk.

“You’d be surprised.” Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back. _Three, two, one._

The door behind Gibson burst open and Sherlock was up from his seat, staying low to avoid Gibson’s immediate shot, and holding John tightly to his chest. “Sherlock,” the doctor slurred, burying his face in the curve between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder. “Sherlock, please…”

“I know, my John. Give me a minute.” Sherlock wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders and waited with a frown for Mycroft himself to walk in. “Brother dear, what took you so long?”

Mycroft sniffed, resting his umbrella on his arm. “You have a knack for slipping my watch, Sherlock. Forgive me for not seeing the emergency quite so immediately.” He took a breath to continue and paused, staring down at John’s pale and shaky form. “I think you and John should go.”

“I agree. Do you have a car waiting or do you expect us to catch a cab?” Sherlock sneered, running his fingers through short blond hair and rocking him gently. Mycroft’s sharp gaze almost softened and he nodded.

“Just outside. Get him home, quickly.” Sherlock’s parting glare wasn’t as covered in vitriol as it could have been.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember in that other story when i said i havent written smut in a long time and i would be rusty?
> 
> well its still been a long time and its still a lot rusty
> 
> so im going to read some of my old smut and try to do well on this u__u
> 
> thank you so much for reading and kudosing and things i reeeeaaaalllly appreciate it!

They had barely got in the black car (mostly hidden in the pitch black darkness of the warehouse) before John’s careful hold on his control snapped. He pushed Sherlock onto his back on the leather seats and whimpered, “Just take me!” He ground his arse into Sherlock’s lap. “It _hurts_ , Sherlock, _please!_ ”

Sherlock kissed at John’s throat and stroked his fever-warm tailbone, resisting the urge to slide his hand into the doctor’s trousers. “I know it hurts, John, and I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”

John shook his head insistently. “You couldn’t have… have known, Sherlock…” He bucked against his Alpha’s answering hardness, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck and making a noise he had never and _would_ never make outside of his heat in Sherlock’s ear. “Just a taste? Just until we get home?” John fumbled with the fly of Sherlock’s trousers as quickly as he could, but Sherlock grabbed his wrists before he could get them open.

“If I start here I won’t be able to stop,” he managed to explain rationally, pinning John’s hands behind his back and fisting a hand in the hair at the back of his head to keep his attention. “There’s a divider on the car, yes, but even I wouldn’t subject an innocent person to _your_ scent full on.” His lips quirked in a small smile. “Especially not in a moving vehicle. You’ll entice all of London.”

John laughed low in his throat, tightening his legs around Sherlock’s waist and rocking lightly. “What if I want to? Would you defend me if all of London wanted to breed me?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re obviously delirious, John,” he reasoned, his hands tightening around John’s wrists to keep him still.

“No, I’m not. I like it when you defend me.” He leaned forward to kiss Sherlock’s slightly parted lips, pouting when the detective continued to hold him back.

“You’re hurt, John. At least let me disinfect it.” When the car pulled up on their curb, Sherlock left first and helped John out after, holding most of his weight as he opened the front door mostly by touch. “Let’s hope Mrs Hudson isn’t—”

John pulled him into a kiss to interrupt him, dragging his taller form down onto the stairs. “We’re home,” he murmured, scenting Sherlock in his favourite spot behind his ear. “I don’t think you’ve ever smelled this strong,” he murmured softly, once again pulling at the fastenings on Sherlock’s trousers.

This time Sherlock let him, easing John’s jumper over his head and dropping it on the stairs above them. “Adrenaline.” Sherlock sat up and held John around his waist to manhandle him until he was face down on the stairs, and then leaned over him and unzipped his jeans. “If that _imbecile_ hadn’t brought Mycroft into it and I had lost you…”

John shook his head and pushed his arse back against Sherlock’s pants. “You would have stopped them, Sherlock,” he insisted. “We’re both here, yeah?”

The detective kissed the back of John’s neck and slid two fingers into his wet heat, stroking over his prostate. He spread John’s legs and intertwined their fingers with his free hand. “Tell me you’re ready, John,” he groaned, pulling out his cock and stroking it to ease the pressure.

“Yes, come on!” John gripped the slats of the handrail and pulled himself upright, leaning backward against Sherlock’s chest. “Please!”

Sherlock couldn’t deny that tone on a good day. He pushed into John to the hilt, holding him around the waist and grinding against him. “Describe it, John,” Sherlock insisted. A few slow thrusts had John scrabbling for purchase on the wall and still attempting to speak.

“I-I—! Christ, Sherlock!” John panted, starting his own rhythm. “It’s… it really hurts—”

“It hurts?” Sherlock paused, then took a deep breath, studying John closer than before. “Should I stop? Did they…?” He didn’t see any sign of further injury, other than his cheekbone and his lip (which had long stopped bleeding and was just a reddened line), but he couldn’t rule out anything he hadn’t seen under his clothes.

“No, no, I just.... it’s good,” John mumbled, reaching over his head to take hold of Sherlock’s curls. “You’re so fucking _big_ …”

Blushing wasn’t something Sherlock did often, but that particular compliment had him turning a deep red to overlay the flush from his heat. “Let’s make a baby,” he hissed in response, balancing on his knees and thrusting hard into John’s arse. John cried out and pulled his hair harder, prompting Sherlock to reach around him and stroke his cock in time with his thrusts.

In just a few minutes, John was moaning and panting his release, his grip on Sherlock loosening and letting him fall forward onto his hands and knees. Sherlock continued to thrust into him, his fingers pressing into John’s hips with bruising force. The Omega’s pleasured groans turned into pained whimpers as he hit the beginning of his refractory period.

“Almost, John,” Sherlock soothed him with his voice and by stroking his arched spine. “Don’t you want my seed? Don’t you want to be pregnant with _our_ child?”

“God, yes,” John pleaded, “Come now, Sherlock.”

A couple more hard thrusts and Sherlock cried out, leaning against John’s back as he climaxed. “Good, love…” he gasped as he laid a hand on John’s stomach, right above his spent cock. “You’re alright?”

John chuckled softly, resting his forehead on his folded arms. “I’m perfect. I love you.”

Sherlock huffed out an amused breath. “And I love you.” He shifted slightly as another orgasm rocked his hips forward, still gently stroking John’s abdomen to relax him. “Let’s aim for the bed before the next round, hm?”

“And steam clean the stairs,” John giggled, patting Sherlock’s hand.

  
***

  
By the next morning they were both sleeping, splayed out in Sherlock’s bed. John was awakened first by his stomach incessantly insisting he eat before continuing any other activity, including much needed sleep. When he tried to slip out of Sherlock’s grasp, however, the Alpha only tightened his hold and buried his nose in John’s hair.

“Let me up, love,” John murmured, kissing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m getting us something to eat.”

“Not hungry. Stay here,” Sherlock replied sleepily without opening his eyes.

John’s gentle smile grew and he patted Sherlock’s messy curls. “We need to eat while we have time. Another wave of the heat is due soon.”

“Good.” Sherlock turned his head and sighed, taking John’s hand and placing it under his cheek. “ _Stay._ ” John kissed across his cheek to his mouth until he sighed again and opened his eyes. “You’re warm.”

“You’ve walked around in your sheet before. Bring it with you.” John got up before Sherlock could reply, taking his Alpha’s beloved blue dressing gown and draping it over his own shoulders. “I’m making tea and toast, if you have any other requests,” he said sweetly on the way out the door.

Five minutes later, John looked up at the sound of pitiful shuffling and braced himself against the counter as Sherlock leaned against his back—as expected, he was wrapped in their white sheet. “Come back to bed,” Sherlock murmured in his ear. “It got cold without you.”

“Eat one piece of toast and have half a cup of tea and we can go back.”

Sherlock bit his ear slightly too hard to be affectionate and snatched a piece of toast from John’s plate, shuffling back into their room. “Hurry up!” he shouted back, and John smiled over the rim of his tea cup.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait, friends.
> 
> I've done my best on this one (thank you Megg33k for beta!!!) but keep in mind I will come through and re-edit because I added some after she came through : )
> 
> Thank you so much for all the hits and kudos!

John held the latest test strip behind his back, watching Sherlock tinker with electronics and chemicals in the kitchen. The man was beautiful as usual, bright eyes completely focused on his task and straight teeth ever-so-slightly nibbling on his pink lower lip. John wondered absently if their child would inherit that tic and almost gasped aloud, standing a bit straighter than before. After so long trying to conceive, the concept of actually _having_ a child seemed daunting.

Eventually Sherlock looked up at him while rolling up the fallen sleeves of his shirt. “Hello,” he murmured curiously, tilting his head a bit. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing.” John shifted from foot to foot as Sherlock stood and moved closer to him. “It’s just… well…”

“Come on,” Sherlock purred in the low voice that never failed to get John to do what he wanted. He only stopped when he was inches from John, breathing across his cheek. The smirk in his tone was insufferable. “You wouldn’t have come in here,” he reasoned, “if you didn’t want to tell me.” He wrapped his arms around John’s waist, pausing when his thin fingers brushed over the cool plastic in John’s hand.

John swallowed hard, relinquishing the test to Sherlock without meeting his eyes. They were both silent for a few moments before John got the courage to glance up, catching sight of Sherlock’s small smile and managing a smile of his own. The weight on his shoulders lifted and he leaned even closer to Sherlock, inhaling his Alpha scent. “We,” he began, and then cleared his throat when his voice cracked with emotion. “We…”

“We’re pregnant.” Sherlock laid a gentle hand on John’s abdomen, applying the barest hint of pressure over his thin jumper. His crystalline eyes were wide and bright. “Thank you, John.”

The Omega raised his head to kiss his cheek. “Thank _you_.”

***

Sherlock was even more careful with John from that day forward. For the first several weeks, he wouldn’t let John out of his sight, on the verge of panic whenever John so much as bumped his shin on the coffee table. Morning sickness had Sherlock turning green in sympathy, letting John lean against him for the duration of his spells over the toilet or the bin. Let’s not even get started on the cravings. Cravings for food, of course, and cravings for…

“Harder!” John demanded between thrusts, gripping the sheets beneath him so tightly his knuckles went white. Sherlock could do nothing but comply, resting his forehead between John’s scapulae and closing his eyes to keep from passing out from pure exhaustion.

John didn’t go through a heat again, as it was unnecessary to try to reproduce when he was already pregnant. That didn’t prevent him from having sex in any way, shape, or form (something that Sherlock was at first excited about and then began to dread); his bouts of sexual frustration were becoming a nuisance.

Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, when the mood struck him John would reach for Sherlock’s cock, whether it was interested or not, and attempt to get himself off with and/or on it. In public, even Sherlock had the decency to hide them both in an out of the way closet or empty room, but in private, John was liable to get pushed over a table and buggered within an inch of his life.

A light moan instead of harsh demand from John told Sherlock he was close. He rested one hand on top of John’s, intertwining their fingers, and held the other over John’s just slightly rounded abdomen, feeling it flutter under his fingertips. John’s gasping, shuddering release pulled an orgasm from Sherlock as well, almost more pain than pleasure. “Ah, again,” John groaned through aftershocks, reaching a hand back to wrap around the back of Sherlock’s knee.

“John, it’s been three times. The average human body isn’t even equipped to—”

John looked up, fire in his dark eyes, to glare over his shoulder at Sherlock. “I’m carrying your baby, Sherlock. The least you can do is fuck me.”

“I’m _trying,_ John, but I only have so much seminal fluid—”

“I don’t want to hear about your ‘seminal fluid,’ Sherlock!” John scrambled off the bed faster than Sherlock could stop him, leaving the room to slam the kettle around in the kitchen.

This was another occurrence that didn’t surprise Sherlock anymore. After their coupling, John would often be stroppy and overemotional in another room for a few minutes before coming back and apologising profusely. Sherlock would insist there was nothing to forgive him for, and they would kiss until they felt they had properly made up (or until Sherlock deigned to let go).

Fifteen minutes of silence later, Sherlock sat up from their bed, peering through the darkness of their room to the hallway outside the doorframe. From the angle of the light shining from the far end, the bathroom light was on but the door was closed.

The detective pulled his pyjama trousers and dressing gown on, padding softly out of the bedroom. The fact that he wasn’t still in the kitchen or the sitting room and drinking his tea was worrying. “John?” he called, gently knocking on the cold wood. “May I come in?”

There was a cough and something that sounded suspiciously like a sob before John replied. “I’m fine, love.”

Sherlock, the cataloguer of every sensation he came across, knew John’s tones of voice like the back of his hand, and John was definitely not fine at this point in time. “John, please let me in.” Another sick sounding cough and Sherlock turned the handle and walked in uninvited, finding John where he expected him—on his knees in front of the toilet. “My John,” he murmured, kneeling with him to run his fingers through John’s damp blond hair. “You should have called me.”

“I’m sorry,” John said just as softly, leaning against Sherlock’s warm chest. Sherlock held him close and kissed his temple in response.

***

Four months into the nine month gestation period, John’s morning sickness and nausea had not yet abated. Sherlock’s already frayed nerves were close to snapping and he ordered John to a specialist, no longer taking no for an answer.

“I’m fine,” John insisted even as Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt for him and slipped it off thinner than normal shoulders, replacing it with a flimsy hospital gown. “My mother had morning sickness for a long while as well, Sherlock.”

“Your mother was a Beta and a woman,” Sherlock murmured in fervent reply, resting his cool hands on John’s fever-hot stomach. He looked up into John’s tired eyes and offered a smile, almost convincing him that he was alright. “It’s just a precaution, John. I'm not prone to disquiet except with you.”

John leaned forward, aiming to brush a kiss over Sherlock’s forehead, and instead held his stomach with both hands as it cramped painfully. “Jesus,” he hissed through his teeth. It was just then that the specialist walked in and took in the situation—Sherlock’s hand curled in the front of John’s gown, his eyebrows together in a deep frown, and John hunched over in pain—and promptly ordered Sherlock out of the room.

“He’s not,” John tried to protest, but the surprisingly strong young man was ushering a sputtering Sherlock to the door.

The specialist locked the door and turned around, looking over John in a professional yet comforting manner. “Could I just ask you a couple of questions before we get started?” he began as soft as he could, sitting next to John slowly as not to frighten him off. John rolled his eyes.

Outside, Sherlock seethed silently in front of the door, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat. It was a good call on the specialist’s part to be suspicious, he conceded to himself, but that didn’t do anything to quell his anger. Neither did the sudden appearance of his elder brother.

“I thought you wouldn’t dare be seen in this cesspit,” Sherlock hissed at him, roughly drawing out his hands to dig his left thumb into the palm of his right hand in a vaguely even rhythm. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I do worry, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, raising an aristocratic brow and holding his chin a little higher. “When my brother and his bonded leave their flat in a rush, it is immediately called to my attention.” Sherlock opened his mouth to snarl again but seemingly didn’t find it worth the effort, crossing his arms over his chest and tapping his foot in impatience. Mycroft blinked at him, and then his position relaxed infinitesimally. “He will be fine,” he assured softly.

Sherlock didn’t stop his seemingly endless row of nervous twitches he’d stored into his memory, scratching at his hairline before shifting restlessly from foot to foot. “I _know_ that, Mycroft!” He shut up immediately when his voice broke and covered his mouth with one fluttering hand. “I know,” he repeated in a whisper.

Mycroft lifted a hand, internally debating whether or not to stroke his brother's dark hair in a phantom gesture of what he used to do when they were children. Eventually he settled on briefly curling one of the locks at the nape of Sherlock’s neck around his finger and then laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Give them a few minutes. If anything is wrong, I will have the best people on it to fix it.”

The detective allowed the touch for a record ten seconds before he shrugged Mycroft off, dropping into the chair just to the left of the door. “I think the Queen’s doctor might be busy.” He leaned back and crossed his legs at the knee. John hadn’t been having any abnormal symptoms, other than the prolonged morning sickness. “When Mummy was pregnant with me, did she… have any… problems?”

Their mother wasn’t something they talked about in detail, from the sad and often painful memories she dredged up, but Sherlock seemed genuinely afraid of what was happening to John. “There was a time, about two months into gestation, that we thought she would lose you,” Mycroft said softly, colloquially. Sherlock listened with rapt attention. “She was over stressed, maintaining her place as head of the house and head of Father’s social circles. Father, as usual, was absent.

“But somehow, you fought the odds and survived. You were underweight for the longest time, a little waif of a thing.” The elder of the two sighed and tapped his umbrella on the floor again. Sherlock’s hands, folded under his chin, had stopped their nervous movements and he was still, contemplating.

The door to the examination room opened, revealing a slightly put-out young specialist. “Come in, Mr Holmes. I have some things I’d like to tell you and John.”

“And I’ll take my leave,” Mycroft said, nodding to Sherlock. “Give my regards to John.” They exchanged a glance and the official turned and left.

Sherlock rose and followed the specialist inside, visibly relaxing at the sight of John, back in his street clothes and smiling. “I told you there was nothing to worry about,” John chastised gently, reaching out to pat Sherlock’s arm.

The young doctor crossed his arms over his chest. “Extended morning sickness for male Omegas is very common, Mr Holmes. As long as you and Doctor Watson ensure that he is taking supplements every day, he will not suffer a nutrient deficiency and your child with be in perfect health.” He glanced down at his laptop screen. “You have an ultrasound appointment next week, so I won’t do another now, but if there’s any trouble between now and then, don’t hesitate to make a _call._ ”

John laughed weakly and ran his fingers through his hair. “Sherlock gets a bit paranoid,” he said in a stage whisper, sliding off the exam table and taking Sherlock’s hand. “Thank you,” he said to the specialist, smiling in that disarming way of his that could make even Mycroft do his bidding. “We’ll be off.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged out of the room and to the sign out desk, just barely resisting the urge to press his nose to the back of John’s neck. “Sorry,” he muttered instead, wrapping an arm around John’s waist and staring nonchalantly in the other direction.

“No worries.” John finished signing the paperwork required to update Mycroft’s private file, leaning into Sherlock’s hold. “I like it when you show you care." He arched an eyebrow invitingly. "I like it _a lot._ ”

“Then I’ll be sure to do it more often.” Sherlock cleared his throat, covering his mouth to hide a smile. “Let’s go home and toast to your good health.”


	8. AUTHOR'S NOTE

See Chapter 9...


	9. Author's Note

Hi Sherlock fans. It's been more than a few _**years**_ since I even thought about this story, to be honest, and I've really changed as an author and really, as a person. I'm not a Sherlock fan anymore, I've moved onto different things. Ignoring all that, I have decided to completely update _and_ ultimately complete this story.

Those of you still getting updates on this (I am so sorry this took so long), I have a question. Would you rather I:

1) update within the story, as in replacing chapters with new and edited information, or  
2) create a new story on my primary account but keep this story for posterity, or  
3) create a new story on my primary account and delete this story?

I'm sorry again. Hopefully some of you are still fans of what I can see is awful writing haha.


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